


two runners on base

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Edging, Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Pre-Series, Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Christmas, 2003, when Dean's been in Deacon's house for over a year--he gives Deacon a present. It's a present for them both.
Relationships: Deacon/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Deacon Kaylor
Series: fic for fire relief [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 26
Kudos: 36





	two runners on base

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shealynn88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/gifts).



> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.

Deacon doesn’t take too much time off, from the prison. He gets his two weeks, like everybody, and he’s got decent help, but it feels strange to let the wardenship of the place go. He likes to know what’s going on with his guys; likes to know what’s happening, in side-gossip from the guards and the cooks, the rumors going on that start from the mail room. Which prisoners have clout, and which need a little more protection from him than the world needs from them.

It’s harder now, though, not to want to take weeks, take months. When he knows what’s waiting for him, at home.

He works, Christmas day. Just his regular shift, but that clears the way for his associate warden and some of the other staff to stay home, with their families. Deacon hasn’t got one, so it’s no real hardship. Although—well. Maybe that’s not true, or at least not the whole truth, anymore. Maybe better to say: his family isn’t exactly a traditional one. They weren’t going to be opening presents, after Santa came down the chimney.

Christmas doesn’t mean any real break, at the prison, although they put on some effort for the men. A priest comes, a pastor. Volunteers who sing carols, and Deacon stands in the back of the tiny rec room with his hand on his baton, watching over the top of the guys’ heads. They’re always the religious kind, the ones where the lyrics sometimes will make Deacon itch, but the tunes are familiar and the inmates go—quiet. Sort of quiet. The volunteers are usually older folks, the kind who’ve been going to church since birth and don’t know any other life. They’re kind, when they hand out their little pre-approved, pre-searched boxes of cookies, and Deacon takes one when it’s offered to him. He’ll bring it home to Dean. He’ll laugh, but he’ll smile at Deacon for it, too.

He comes home with two bottles of whiskey, in addition to the cookie wrapped up in its tissue to keep the decoration safe. Well past dark, when he pulls up to the house, though the lights are on inside, blazing. When he comes in the TV’s on, playing the basketball, and he pauses in the living room to watch the Mavericks score on Sacramento, and then again in quick succession.

“You bring beer?” he hears, from the kitchen. “We’re out.”

“Wouldn’t be if you wouldn’t drink it all,” he says, and turns away from the television to walk back to the open kitchen door, and leans into the frame with his paper sack to see Dean moving around, in socked feet and those hunter-green flannel pants he’s taken such a shine to, fixing dinner, competent and comfortable. “Anyway, I brought better.”

Dean finishes stirring whatever’s in that pot on the stove and comes over. In his socks he’s an inch or so shorter than Deacon. He tips the edge of the sack with his finger, looks down at the bottles, and when his eyes turn up they’re just-barely crinkled at the corners, like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Could’ve sprung for the Macallan,” he says, like he’s complaining. Before Deacon can even get out a fake-eyeroll, though, Dean’s lifted up the inch he needs to take a kiss, warm and sweet, and he takes the bag right out of Deacon’s arms to set it on the table, between their already-set plates. “Dinner’s ready in ten. You want bread?”

“No,” Deacon says, and Dean shrugs a shoulder and goes back to fixing their supper, content, and Deacon looks at him, the pretty line of his back and his easy comfort, how he looks like he’s at home, and then goes to climb out of his uniform and take a quick shower. Resetting, leaving the prison behind, to be fully present in the home Dean’s made.

They didn’t put up a tree. Deacon never has, since he bought this place, alone. No decoration, no real discussion. Last Christmas, Dean had only been with him for two months and they didn’t acknowledge the day much at all, other than in how Dean made two phone calls, out on the porch in the cold, which Deacon left him to in privacy, and then he came back inside and they watched basketball and Dean fell asleep early, which Deacon had pretty much expected after he’d kept Dean up half the night. This year—Dean’s made some kind of goulash, heavy on the paprika, and they watch more basketball, and Deacon washes the dishes in the agreement they’ve come to—only fair, since Dean does nearly all the cooking, that Deacon takes care of the cleanup—and Dean comes and sits at the table and listens to his story about the choir singing, and tough-guy Ramirez joining in on O Holy Night, and then Deacon remembers his cookie and fetches it from his uniform pocket to give to Dean, while he’s pouring them two glasses of whiskey.

Dean laughs, just like Deacon thought he would. He bites the antlers off the reindeer, the too-thick frosting cracking with his teeth. “Oh man, sugar bomb,” he says, but from Dean that’s never a complaint. He breaks off a leg, for Deacon, and it is, ah, so sweet that Deacon’s teeth hurt, but it makes Dean smile to watch him eat it, so he eats it. Dean sips from his glass, teeth worrying his lip a little, but then he stands, says, “Be right back.” Like Deacon would go anywhere.

Rustle from the living room. Dean comes back with a paper sack—anonymous, plain as the one the liquor store had given Deacon. He puts it on the table between them with a little thump and then sits back down, and he’s trying out that defiant Steve McQueen look again, only his ears are pink and Deacon’s stripped him down to bone, already, so he doesn’t quite pull it off. “What’s this?” Deacon says, and Dean shrugs, says, “Open it and find out,” and Deacon looks at him steadily over the table until that pink seeps down to Dean’s cheeks, to his throat, and only then does he pull the bag closer, and look.

Even with all they’ve done, it is an actual surprise. He looks from the bag to Dean’s face, and then upends it so the contents fall out onto the table. Cuffs, not police-issue but for—play. Thick leather bands, and a solid chain between them with rings to change the length as it suits, and he rubs the chain between his fingers and thinks, good lord. This boy.

“Merry Christmas,” Dean says, and he says it like a joke. Prepared to pretend, like it doesn’t mean anything.

Deacon stands up, and holds out his hand to make Dean stand with him. He takes Dean’s waist in his hands and walks him backwards, the two steps to the wall, and presses Dean flat there and kisses him, steady, feeling how Dean’s hands flash up to his arms and hold him, how he sucks in a startled breath and then kisses back, soft, nervous. Nervous. Deacon strokes up to his ribs, bites his lip just enough. “Where’d you get those, Dean?” he says, pitching it low because he knows how Dean reacts, to his voice when it’s low, and yes indeed, Dean lets out this small sound, his head dipping.

He says it kind of awkward. “Store in Little Rock. When I was coming back from that ghoul thing.” Deacon rucks up Dean’s shirt, strokes his hipbones bare, and Dean licks his lips, shrugs a shoulder. “You, um. You like to hold me down, so.”

Lord, he does. He likes more that Dean likes to be held down, and doesn’t quite know how to say that he likes it. He kisses Dean’s temple, squeezes his hips, and says, “Come to bed, baby,” and Dean sways into him but does, and that night Deacon just—keeps it simple. Opens Dean up quick, takes him on his back with Dean’s legs curling around his hips, kisses him soft and makes him come sweet and easy, so he hardly cries out but just sighs, and when they’re done Deacon holds him against his chest, stroking the back of his neck, and Dean goes to an easy sleep.

Deacon’s day off is the 26th. He wakes up first—almost always does, because Dean for all his delights is most certainly not a morning person—but he lies there for a few minutes, head propped on his hand, watching Dean sleep in the cool early light. His face, turned away on the pillow. His young, malleable body. Merry Christmas, Deacon thinks, to himself, and when he gets out of bed he makes sure to do it carefully, so Dean won’t be disturbed.

When he’s ready he sits on the side of the bed, on Dean’s side, and touches his face. Dean wakes with a flutter of eyelashes, a soft sound as he rubs his cheek against the pillow. “Morning, baby,” Deacon says, and Dean blinks at him and then smiles, unguarded and sweet. Tooth-aching sweet. Deacon slides his hand down Dean’s bare chest, smiles back, and then says, “I’m going to take care of things today. All right?”

Dean’s lips part. He knows what that means. “Yeah, all right,” he says, after a few seconds, his voice scratchy, and Deacon leans down and kisses his cheek for it, and says, “Good,” warm and rewarding, and hears the breath Dean takes at hearing it. It’s going to be a good day.

He brought Dean a cup of coffee, and has him drink it while he moves around the bedroom. The blankets folded back, so Dean’s naked with his knees drawn up against the headboard; the curtains drawn, so they can see the wintry day outside. Light sprinkle of snow, overnight, making the yard and trees as white as a greeting card. He sets Dean’s gift on the chest, at the foot of the bed, and Dean’s eyes go right to the cuffs and then up to Deacon’s face, wondering, but he doesn’t ask. They’ve played this game more than a few times. Dean knows, now, that asking or not—it won’t change how it goes.

He lets Dean use the toilet alone, but they shower together. He washes Dean’s hair, soaps his body. Dean leans against him, eyes closed, and lets Deacon push wet fingers up inside, making sure he’s clean and empty. When they get out he guides Dean over to the sink, plants his hands there and has him bend over, and watches Dean’s face in the mirror while he pushes lube inside, two fingers making him slick and wet. Dean’s lips part, his shoulders rising and falling. Deacon reaches around him and picks up the plug he’d left on the sink, and keeps his eyes on Dean’s in the mirror while he pushes it inside. It’s just thick enough that he knows it’s on the edge of hurt. It had been a long, tender night, figuring that out, making Dean tell him the truth of what exactly he could take. Now he watches Dean’s eyes widen and then flutter, feeling the weight of it, the stretch. When it’s all the way in it’s a ridiculously lewd black circle, pressing open Dean’s ass. Deacon flattens his wet fingers against it and presses, hard, and feels how Dean flinches and tries to keep the pose Deacon put him in. “Perfect,” Deacon says, and Dean’s eyes close, his cheeks a deep red.

Breakfast is eggs, toast, jam. He makes Dean sit at the table, naked except for his amulet and his plug, while he scrambles the eggs, watches his face when he settles on his ass. When it’s ready he pulls his own chair around and sits at Dean’s side, pets him easy while he eats, tells him a story about a Christmas when he was still in the Marines, stationed after the war in Maryland, and they got in a snowball fight with the Navy guys that got so out of hand they all got latrine duty. Dean smiles but doesn’t speak, his head clearly all on Deacon’s hand on his thigh, Deacon’s fingers tracing slow circles at the nape of his neck. The thing inside him.

Breakfast, done. “Do you want more coffee?” he says, and Dean nods, and Deacon pours it for him and watches him drink it, his fingers dragging slow stripes up and down Dean’s thigh. His dick is half-plump, has been all morning. When Dean finishes the mug Deacon takes it away to the sink, and then says, “Up,” and Dean stands but his thighs shake, and he has to put a hand to the table for balance. Deacon takes him back to the bedroom, and guides him to his back on the turned-down bed, and picks up his present. He thought about blindfolding Dean for it but no, the best part always is seeing his eyes.

Dean’s wrist is already bruised. Leftover from a hunt, last week, that gave him the bruises on his ribs and thigh, too. In the fourteen months he’s had Dean in his bed, he’s never once been unmarked. Deacon buckles the first cuff around the bruised wrist and pulls it tight, making sure the pressure is felt. Dean’s fingers flex. He passes the chain between the slats of the headboard and buckles Dean’s other wrist at a length which isn’t punishing, but isn’t loose, either. Just enough flex so that he’ll work his shoulders and feel how he can’t get out. Dean’s mouth is open, his breathing heavy, and when Deacon finishes buckling him in and smooths his hands down Dean’s arms where they’re trapped above his head, Dean’s dick has fully hardened, lying needy and dark against his hip, the tip already gleaming.

Deacon doesn’t make him wait. He sucks Dean’s dick with all the ease of all the practice he’s had, making Dean sigh, making his thighs flex, making him arch and push and making the chain rattle, above his head, as he tries to put his hands in Deacon’s hair and can’t. Deacon lets him come, which Dean clearly didn’t expect from the dazed grateful look on his face. Deacon smiles at him and then kisses him, sharing the bitter-salt of it, and when Dean’s soft again, his mouth gone lazy and satisfied, Deacon reaches between his legs and grips the plug, working him there. It makes Dean’s hips jump, though after a second his thighs spread without Deacon having to ask. Deacon twists it, tugs it. Dean’s hips squirm, pressing down, and Deacon pulls it enough that the thickest part holds there, spreading Dean wide, and then pushes it back in, and then pulls it out and does it again, over and over, making Dean stretch, making him breathe hard and helpless against Deacon’s chin, against his throat when Dean ducks his head, trying to hide. Deacon lets him, and doesn’t stop, and Dean’s dick rises again, and when he’s fully hard for the second time Deacon stops, and presses the plug back into place, and kisses Dean’s cheek and takes his hands fully away.

A pause, then. Dean pants, and then his breathing slows. Deacon leaves him there, goes and eats some leftover goulash. Brushes his teeth, slow, and knows that from the open bathroom door Dean can see him, where he’s pinned there on the bed. He washes the breakfast dishes, puts them away, and when he comes back to the bedroom Dean’s eyes are closed and he’s still, his fingers curled around the chain, his dick just barely plump. Deacon reaches between his legs and pulls the plug out, careful and slow, and coats it in more lube, and pushes it back inside, and does it again—working Dean, watching his reactions, tracking how his thighs work and his dick flexes, rising, under the compulsion of what Deacon’s doing to him. Dean draws his feet up, this time, his heels hard against the bed, trying to work his hips back against the plug, and Deacon lets him, and by the time Deacon stops Dean’s really close to coming, his balls high and his dick dripping over his stomach, and he lets out this wounded rough noise when he realizes it’s stopping again, and he says, “Deacon,” pleading, and Deacon strokes his hair and kisses him to quiet.

He unlocks Dean’s cuffs from the chain around noon, takes him to the bathroom. Dean winces when his shoulders are allowed to stretch and it takes a moment, before he sits up on the bed. Deacon walks him in, stands with him in front of the toilet, kisses his shoulder while he pisses. “Water?” Deacon says, and Dean nods, and Deacon gives him a glass and watches him drink it down. The cuffs look good, still on his wrists. Bisecting him with black, the same way his amulet cord does. He takes away the empty glass and takes Dean back to the bed, and locks him back into place, and this time when he pulls out the plug Dean hardly reacts. He’s looser, slick. Deacon sets it aside, spreads Dean’s thighs wider. When he pushes the dildo inside Dean does jerk, surprised, and his hips flatten out, trying to make it easier. He couldn’t take it, two months ago, when Deacon had worked with him so long; now, it spreads him slow but it’s possible, good, making Dean’s dick flex at the stretch. Deacon works it in easy rocking thrusts, more like fucking than the plug had been, and Dean tips his knees out and takes it, every breath out riding the edge of a moan, his dick leaking now in a steady stream, the spill filling up his bellybutton.

Deacon stops, again. Dean cries. Not loud, or sobbing, but the tears leak steadily down his temples and his breath shakes in his chest. Deacon leaves the dildo where it is, seven of its inches still splitting Dean open, and crawls up and kisses Dean’s cheek, his forehead, between his brows. His throat, and his nipples, and the bruised spot on his ribs, and then Deacon takes his balls in careful fingers and kisses them, too, laving them wet, making Dean’s thighs shake, his body overwhelmed and not able to get there, not just with this.

He brings Dean another cup of water. Holds his head up, careful, letting him sip. The tear-tracks have dried. He massages Dean’s arms, where they’re lashed up, squeezing his forearms and his biceps and his shoulders, and Dean lets him, of course, as he lets him do everything. Like he’d let him do anything. He rubs a thumb over Dean’s mouth, when he’s done, smearing the fat plush of his lips, and Dean watches his face and lets him—of course, lets him—and then Dean watches while Deacon takes off his clothes—the t-shirt and pajama pants he’s forced himself to stay in, this whole time—and watches while Deacon kneels up, on the bed—and then his cheeks color, his chest rising in surprise, when Deacon straddles his torso, and comes forward. Dean lifts his head without needing to be asked and when Deacon pushes his dick inside Dean’s mouth it's—perfect, perfect. Perfect heat, perfect slickness, perfect suction. He won’t bottom out although he’s taught Dean to do that, too; instead he just slips a few inches inside, rocking against Dean’s tongue, watching his face. Dean’s eyes flutter closed, going pink all over. His lips, split as red and wide as he is below. His cheeks, hollowing as he tries to get more.

Deacon pulls out and Dean’s mouth stays gaped for a few seconds, asking for more. It’s snowing again, outside, the light greyed. Deacon lifts off and goes back to the foot of the bed, between Dean’s legs. The dildo’s still mostly inside, braced against the bed as it is. He slicks Dean’s hole with more lube, making sure the slide’s easy, and pulls it carefully all the way out. Dean gapes there, too. Just a little, just enough to see a split of dark where he isn’t closing up, after this long day. Dean’s watching, down the stretch of his own body, while Deacon slicks the dildo and pushes it back in. Dean’s fingers clutch around the chain, his body clenching, when Deacon applies his lube-slick hand to his own dick, wet and ready from Dean’s mouth.

He has to push Dean’s knees back. Dean holds them there, his young body flexible and strong and able to do it even without the help of his hands. The base of the rubber dick is black and thick, and it feels oddly alien when Deacon pushes his own dick against it. Dean’s chest heaves, his eyes black, fixed on Deacon’s face. “It’ll hurt, baby,” Deacon says, although surely Dean knows that—"but you can do it. I know you can.“

For a few moments Deacon thinks he can’t. He works a thumb in, between Dean’s body and the dildo, and it’s so tight and Dean’s face goes so strange that he thinks, maybe—but then there’s a shudder, and Dean’s hips tip into it. When he finally pushes his dick inside, too, it's—god, lord above, tighter than anything, wilder than anything. He’s doubled-teamed a boy before but that was with another man, with a flesh-and-blood dick just like his, normal-sized. This is—bizarre, impossible. He keeps the dildo in place with a thumb, crushes his dick in alongside it, and Dean turns his face to the side and buries it against his own arm, a long sigh turning into a moan turning into a—a wail, when Deacon thrusts again, and a shout when Deacon crams himself all the way inside, the dildo base crushed up against his balls, Dean split unnaturally around both of them.

"You’re so good,” Deacon says, half-mindless. Jesus, the pressure, it’s like his dick’s caught in a hydraulic press. He leans forward, carrying Dean’s hips with him in a helpless curl, and touches Dean’s face with his free hand, feeling how he’s spilling tears again, his thumb pressing into Dean’s wet split mouth. “Baby, you’re so good, you’re perfect. Taking me like this, all the way.”

He fucks in hard, and Dean cries around his thumb, his legs jumping. “Put them around me,” Deacon says, and Dean does unthinking, crossing his ankles high behind Deacon’s back, and Deacon leans forward enough that he can kiss Dean, pressing his knees back against his shoulders, and when he fucks Dean it’s relentless, the best steady rhythm he can manage, the dildo a strange hard presence amid Dean’s furiously soft heat, and Dean yanks at the chain and can’t move, and cringes his hips up and can’t get leverage where he’s being crushed into the bed, and he comes fast, striping up both their chests, moaning loud and wild and painful into Deacon’s hair, and Deacon pauses, feeling the ripple, and then mentally steels himself and holds on just long enough that he’s sure Dean’s done, his body aching and exhausted and needing rest, and only then does Deacon feel free to finish, fucking fast into Dean’s achy asshole, and when he end finally comes he stays in, deep, making sure that he creams thick inside, with Dean breathing hard against his sweating skin.

Slow, slow pull-out. He keeps the dildo in place but come froths up around it anyway, where Dean’s been too broken-open to keep it inside. He unbuckles Dean’s wrists, careful, and the bruised one is dark and the unbruised one is red, and will certainly match soon, and Deacon kisses the inside of each very softly, and then picks up Dean’s face and kisses his mouth just as softly, working his slack lips and his tongue until Dean makes a tiny noise, and stirs, and kisses him back. His hands alight tentatively on Deacon’s shoulders, and then less tentatively, and then he slides his arms around Deacon’s neck and holds him, a belated deep shudder rocking his body, his eyes leaking again. Not crying, just—the overstimulation, catching up with him.

Dark outside, almost. The days end fast, this time of year. Deacon holds Dean against him, Dean’s head pillowed on his arm, and strokes his back, and kisses him when he thinks Dean needs it. Dean needs it often, as far as Deacon’s concerned.

Dean’s stomach rumbles, eventually. It has been a very long time, since breakfast. “Pizza for dinner,” Deacon says, and Dean sighs and says, “That’ll be awesome.”

Sleepily content. Deacon traces a thumb around his hairline, stroking the sweet soft curve of his ear. He says, not judging either way, “Do you want me to take it out?”

Dean shifts, against him. Deacon wonders how it feels. The slick inside, the weight heavy still. He’s been fucked, of course, but never like this. Dean’s bottom lip drags between his teeth and he shakes his head, no. Lord. He is perfect. “Dinner in bed, then,” he says, and kisses Dean’s temple, and then gets up to find his phone. The boy deserves a meat lover’s, after the day he’s had.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629616807133724672/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-shealynn88-donated) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
